Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Red Soles
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Old Dog in a Doorway
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
The Cat Came Back
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
RICHARD JURY NOVELS
The Man with a Load of Mischief
The Old Fox Deceived
The Anodyne Necklace
The Dirty Duck
Jerusalem Inn
Help the Poor Struggler
The Deer Leap
I Am the Only Running Footman
The Five Bells and the Bladebone
The Old Silent
The Old Contemptibles
The Horse You Came In On
Rainbow’s End
The Case Has Altered
The Stargazey
The Lamorna Wink
The Blue Last
The Grave Maurice
The Winds of Change
The Old Wine Shades
Dust
OTHER WORKS BY MARTHA GRIMES
The End of the Pier
Hotel Paradise
Biting the Moon
The Train Now Departing
Cold Flat Junction
Foul Matter
Belle Ruin
Dakota
POETRY
Send Bygraves
VIKING
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R oRL, England
First published in 2010 by Viking Penguin,
a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Copyright © Martha Grimes, 2010
All rights reserved
Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to reprint an excerpt from “Waving Adieu, Adieu, Adieu” from The Collected Poems of Wallace Stevens.
Copyright 1954 by Wallace Stevens and renewed 1982 by Holly Stevens. Used by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc.
Publisher’s Note
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Grimes, Martha.
The black cat : a Richard Jury mystery / Martha Grimes. p. cm.
eISBN : 978-1-101-19005-0
1. Jury, Richard (Fictitious characters)—Fiction. 2. Police—England—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3557. R48998B586 2010
8I3’.54—dc22 2009030814
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To my old cat, Blackie
November 1989—April 23, 2007
That would be waving and that would be crying,
Crying and shouting and meaning farewell
—WALLACE STEVENS
Red Soles
1
It was already in the bloody London tabloids, the case not yet three days old and his own face plastered all over the paper when it was really Thames Valley police, and not the Met, not he, who owned the case.
Superintendent Richard Jury, high-ranking detective with the Metropolitan police, but without much feeling for rank, and who’d climbed the ladder without much feeling for the rungs, found himself at the moment in High Wycombe in Buckinghamshire, in a mortuary looking down at the body of an as yet unidentified woman.
What had made it so fascinating, he supposed, was not simply that the glamorous girl (woman, surely, only “Glam Girl” made much better copy) had been shot dead in the grounds of a pub not far away, in Chesham, but that forty-eight hours on, they hadn’t discovered who she was.
Jury looked at her and wondered why the portrait of Chatter-ton came to mind; then he remembered Millais had also painted Ophelia, or his idea of her. And there was that larger concept that had looked so familiar—the Pre-Raphaelite period—that Romantic period of Rossetti, Holman Hunt, Millais, and rich fantasy, vibrant colors, and the death of youth. The Pre-Raphaelites were really into dying young.
Dr. Pindrop. Jury loved the name, although it didn’t suit the doctor. Silence was not the doctor’s milieu. He sputtered a lot, showing signs of being about to erupt but managing not to do so.
“Two shots,” said Pindrop, “one missing the vital organs—” Here he pointed at the badly wounded shoulder in case Jury was blind. “It was the second one in the chest that did for her.”
Jury nodded, said nothing, tried to memorize the woman’s classically sculpted face.
“Superint
endent?”
Jury looked up.
“You’ve had a right good look. Can I cover her up now?”
Jury assumed the irritation was for the usual reason: why was New Scotland Yard sending people round? “No. Leave it for a moment.” Jury continued his “right good look.” A .38 had done the job, according to forensic. No gun had been found, a couple of casings had.
The doctor had shown him the clothes she’d been wearing, designer dress, shoes, small handbag.
“Label’s messed up. Looks like Lanvin. That’s the French chap.”
“No. Saint Laurent. The other one.”
Pindrop smirked. “Oh. You know this French lot, do you?”
“I know a lot of things.” Jury wanted to laugh.
The doctor gave a Dr.-Watson-as-played-by-Nigel-Bruce sort of grunt-laugh.
The dress was beautiful. It was sedate and yet not. The neckline consisted of layered ruffles. The sleeves were transparent as glass, reaching nearly to the elbow. The dress was the same color as her hair, a burnt orange. It was made of silk or air. He’d never seen a dress that looked so decorous and so sexy at the same time. The shoes were designed by Jimmy Choo. That name was writ large across the instep of a sandal of exquisitely crisscrossed, narrow leather ribbons of iridescent copper. The bag was Alexander McQueen. Jury didn’t know him but imagined he ran with the others, along Upper Sloane Street. All of this getup would run to a couple thousand quid, he bet.
“Expensive,” said the doctor. “Must’ve been well-fixed.”
“Or someone was.” He looked up. “Do you live in Chesham?”
“No. In Amersham. Old Amersham, not the one on the hill.”
A proud distinction, apparently. “You can’t say if she’s a local, then?”
Dr. Pindrop ran his hand through thinning hair. Jury figured him to be at the back end of his sixties. “I’d swear I’d seen her before.”
This surprised Jury, since the doctor brought this out with a bit of sympathy that he hadn’t shown until now.
“She looks familiar to you.” This at least was something.
“Yes, for some reason. Perhaps she is a local. If not Chesham, perhaps Amersham, Berkhamsted ... well, you know.”
“I’m not familiar with the area.”
The doctor pulled up the sheet and dropped it over her face. “Then why did they want you?”
2
It was the same question Jury had posed and Detective Chief Superintendent Racer had answered, or rather half-answered. “Because they asked.”
Oh, well, thought Jury. He waited for Racer to embellish. Racer didn’t. “That’s it? That’s all? Who’s ‘they’? And why? Thames Valley is the best, certainly the biggest nonmetropolitan police force in the country, and they need us?”
Racer flapped his hand at Jury the imbecile. “No, no. Of course they’re perfectly capable. Chief constable’s a friend of mine. Discretion. You know how it is.” He started shuffling the papers on his desk, which wasn’t easy, as there were only three or four.
Again, Jury waited. The “why?” was still in abeyance, though he was the only one to realize this, apparently. He let it pass. “When did all of this happen?”
“You mean this woman’s murder? On the Saturday night, as far as they can make out.”
Jury looked at him. “Today is Monday.”
“I’ve got a calendar, man; I know what day it is.” Shuffle, shuffle.
And he also knew perfectly well how cold the trail was by now.
Racer glared. “I’m sorry we can’t have a perfectly fresh body for you, lad. But there it is. Enough time’s been wasted—”
As if Jury were the waster.
“So you’d better get your skates on. They’re putting her on hold.”
On hold. As if this poor woman had been making a phone call rather than being murdered.
“Chesham. Near Amersham in Bucks. I’ll give police there a jingle, have somebody pick you up.”
“That’s all you can tell me, then, about this murdered woman? But if Thames Valley police don’t know who she is, I fail to see the need to be discreet.”
“You’re no master of discretion yourself, man!” came the non sequitur.
3
Detective Sergeant David Cummins of the Thames Valley CID met Jury at the Chesham underground stop. The underground was a godsend for the residents here who worked in London. To be let off driving in London traffic was a miracle, in addition to the weary businessman’s being able to lead a bucolic life out here in almost-country.
DS Cummins had kindly darted into the café by the station to purchase tea for Jury. Cummins was obviously impressed, not only to get a CID man from New Scotland Yard, but a detective superintendent, no less. They don’t come much higher than that.
Jury didn’t bother telling him that his boss was higher than that. He wondered when the last time was that Racer had actually worked a case.
“What can you tell me?”
Cummins took a deep breath, as if he were going to let loose a long and intricate story. “Not much, sir. Taxi picked her up at Chesham station, said she had him drop her at the Black Cat. Told her he’d get as close as he could; it’s because the roadworks had burst pipes along the street and in front of the pub.”
Cummins went on: “According to him she didn’t say anything about a party or anything else. You’ll want to talk to him, I expect. The body was found by a woman who’d been walking this way with her dog, an Emily Devere.”
“A local?”
“No. She lives in Amersham.”
“But she was walking her dog in Chesham?”
“It’s a public footpath that she especially likes. And the Black Cat’s always been a favorite, she says.”
Jury guessed the attraction was more pub than path.
“Did you get anything helpful from her?”
Cummins shook his head. “She was pretty rattled by the whole thing. She couldn’t raise anyone in the pub, so she called police on her mobile.”
“What way did she come onto the patio and tables?”
“She often came round from the footpath, walked behind the pub, and then up to the back and the patio through the trees. It’s not really a wood, is it? Just the trees behind the pub. Said she saw a cat, a black cat, run off into the trees. Probably the pub cat.” Cummins plowed on. “Now, as to the party idea: a well-to-do couple named Rexroth were throwing a pretty big one at their home, and it’s near the pub. Deer Park House. According to them, they’d never seen the woman, didn’t know anything about her. I’m pretty sure they were being truthful.”
“Just how big a party?”
“Eighty or more, probably more. On that score they were a bit vague.”
Jury smiled. “If I had eighty people around, I’d be more than vague; I’d be dead drunk.”
Cummins liked the levity. “There was plenty of that, too, they said. Good-natured couple, the Rexroths.”
“Then they’ll be glad to see us.”
The Black Cat was on the Lycrome Road, on the edge of Chesham. They were by then pulling into the small car park. The pub itself was pale yellow—washed, pleasant and unassuming. “Do Not Cross” tape cordoned off the back of it.
“Place has been closed off since,” said Cummins, “but I expect that’ll be taken down now. No reason to interfere with business any more than’s necessary. Owners are on an extended holiday, and it’s being looked after by a friend of theirs. Name’s Sally Hawkins and she lives in Beaconsfield but helps out if they need it. Her niece, I think the child is, lives with her.”
Jury turned from the small collection of trees to look at the pub. “Is Ms. Hawkins in?”
“Should be. I called to tell her you’d want a word with her. She wasn’t happy.”
“They never are. Show me where the Devere woman found the body.”
They walked across the car park and a patch of grass, wet and in need of cutting, to a patio where several tables were set out for the use of the custo
mers in fine weather. Each had an umbrella on it, furled now. On one of them lay a black cat, also furled, thought Jury, curled tightly and peacefully sleeping. Jury ran his hand along the cat’s back. “Hello, cat,” he said. To Cummins: “Pub cat?”
“I shouldn’t wonder. Well, they’d have to have a black cat, now, wouldn’t they?”
The place looked deserted, but any place would, thought Jury, with a streamer of police tape across its car park.
“It was this table here,” said Cummins, moving to the table farthest from the car park. “She must’ve been sitting at it, we can’t be sure, but she was found sprawled behind it. Body was lying mostly on the patio, shoulders and head on the grass. It was as if she’d fallen off the seat at the impact. Forensic say the shooter was probably standing, given the path of the bullet, the way it hit the victim.” Cummins raised his hand, simulated a gun pointing downward.
“Drinks on the table?”
Cummins shook his head. “No. Nothing.”
“It would seem, then, they weren’t friends sharing a quiet drink together.”
Cummins looked at him. “It would certainly seem they weren’t friends.”
Jury smiled; he liked the mild put-down. “Suppose we have a word with Ms. Hawkins.”
They went through the door at the side, near the stone terrace, into a little hall and then into the bar. The room was long, narrow, not especially large, but certainly pleasant. Jury heard the tapping of high heels on stairs and a blond woman came into the room.
She wasn’t bad-looking, only a bit hard. Her eyes were like slate, her blond hair brassy, weighed down with the extra color that came out of a bottle. “Saw you two messing about outside, so I thought I’d better come down.”
DS Cummins told Sally Hawkins who Jury was. “He’d just like to put a few questions to you about the Saturday night.”
She tossed a lock of yellow hair from her shoulder. “Well, I told you what I know, which is sod-all. I’m having a drink, me. You want something?” Without much interest in the answer, she went behind the bar, expertly flipped a glass down from a rack, and placed it under the optic that held one of the lesser-quality gins.
The Black Cat Page 1
